fall with you
by dead end justice
Summary: "You have me, I have you, and I want you for forever and a day, and even that seems short." —Massie/Derrick. Summer exchange for hawtjuicyaddict


**Title**: fall with you  
**Author**: dead end justice  
**Rating**: T  
**Summary**: "You have me, I have you, and I want you for forever and a day, and even that seems short." —Massie/Derrick. Summer exchange for hawtjuicyaddict

I'm sorry this is getting posted late, but today is my mom's birthday and I almost forgot all about this! I also don't know if I got the prompts right, but I never seem good with those, so I'm sorry if this is awful. It's also really choppy and messy, but I think that's what I was going for.

* * *

Derrick finds himself most at ease when faced with a mess. He enjoys the meticulous way in which he has to fix it with, like stitching up a cut. He thinks that's why he likes puzzles so much; to the human eye, they seem so infinitely destroyed, a million jagged pieces that don't fit as one without a steady hand. Everything can be put back together: a shattered vase with a little glue, a pigsty of a bedroom with a vacuum and a garbage bag, a heart with some nice words and gestures and a whole lot of time.

Derrick spends a lot of time picking things apart. He wonders if anyone else does this, if they like to break things just to find out how to repair them. He knows cars, door locks, guitars. He knows many things, how music gets produced, the secret ingredient in his mom's apple pie, how to make the perfect fishtail braid. But with all the knowledge he possesses, there is another side, sort of like his body is separated right down the middle, because he does not know everything. He can pretend he does, but he'll never understand why girls are so obsessed with their body images or why his high school cares so deeply about sports and not their art department. And no matter how many times he listens and talks and breathes and blinks, he won't be able to fix Massie Block.

So he doesn't. He swallows the urge to pry at her brain, to question all she does, and sits there with her when she's sad. He holds her hair back when she pukes, wipes her cheeks when she cries, tucks her into bed when she's tired, only to be pulled right on to the mattress because she hates to be alone.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don't.

She'll tell him things he hides in his heart forever – of wishes and dreams and childhood memories – and kisses the tip of her nose, the crown of her head, the apples of her cheeks. Never her lips, never ever, because sometimes she gets overwhelmed and he doesn't like it when he's the reason she's upset. He lets her do it all, entwining their fingers, pressing their mouths together, stripping him of his shirt when she wants to make things more intimate.

His friends think he's stupid for spending so much time with someone who's not entirely there. The school's convinced he's getting some by being with her, and girls try to bargain with him because she's not giving him what he needs, no, they know exactly what he needs, Der_rick_. But his heart belongs to her, it always has, it always will, and it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, says, or does. She took his breath away five years ago and hasn't given it back. He doesn't need it, though; he's learned to live without it.

.

.

.

When it's hot out, they sit by the lake, dangling their feet in the cool water, watching the little fish nip at their toes. She clings to his hand because she can't swim and she's scared, but there's no reason to worry because he's _right there_ and he's not going anywhere. They laugh and they whisper and when the terror grips at her heart for too long, he tells her corny jokes to bring her back, the mirth in her eyes causing his heart to skip not one beat, but two.

Night falls and they lie in the bed of his truck. She smells of coconuts and summer and points to the sky, telling him all about the stars and explaining every constellation she knows. He hangs on her every word like it's the most important thing she'll ever say; her voice reminds him of his favorite song, so familiar and warm, with the ability to surprise him every time he hears it.

When she runs out of things to say, he asks her what she wants in life, things she longs to do before her time runs out – not necessarily a bucket list because there's no hurry to fulfill these tasks, and it's okay if she doesn't – and she'll sit there and wonder for what feels like forever, her eyes bright and face flushed. There are days she doesn't know what she really wants and there are days when she does and although she doesn't say it, he can always hear the ghost of her voice murmuring _you you, I want you_, and that's when he'll kiss her, forgetting all about how panicked she can get at spontaneous actions, because he needs to tell her, she needs to know – _you have me, I have you, and I want you for forever and a day, and even that seems too short._

.

.

.

Massie loves to read. He'll never understand what she likes so much about it; he's never been too good with words, speaking them or analyzing them, but she is. There's something about disappearing into another world that intrigues her, she's told him this, and he tries to find that same connection in his own world, but can't. There's nothing he feels so strongly about that matters much, except for her, maybe, and he's never once been bothered by it. He thinks that perhaps soccer was as thrilling as books are to her and then he thinks it's not because he wouldn't have quit if it was.

The library's an odd place to be, what with its various nooks and crannies. He runs his finger along rows and rows of hardcovers and softcovers, squinting to read their titles, sometimes even going as far as to peruse the summary or first page if the name calls to him. He never reads them, though.

Derrick roams a lot when they're there, charming Lil, the old librarian who always has extra muffins for them when they show up, and making friends with the little boy, Noah, that gets dropped off when his mom goes to work. Massie never notices he's gone, and if she does, she never mentions it. He hopes she doesn't mind. He adores everything about her, but there's no way he can sit there idly and watch her flip pages and become immersed with characters and beings that don't exist. He's tried.

What he likes most about the library is that you can find the funniest things there. He once bought a book about space for a quarter from the bin at the front of the building. He unearthed a chessboard in the children's section and taught both himself and Noah how to play on a particularly rainy day. There was a cassette tape in the music section of Christmas songs sung by the Looney Tunes and he took it, remembering the look on his mother's face when she bought it at a department store when he was younger.

They don't tell you many things about the library. They don't tell you how easy it is to lose track of time, or how nice the people who work there are. They don't mention how it's not all about books, but peacefulness and ease. They keep this one close to their hearts, though, because there's no need to tell someone that the library's the one place you can really find yourself. Derrick knows it's because you have to learn that one on your own.

Like clockwork, he finds his way back to Massie around seven. Sometimes she's done with the book and sometimes they take it out. Either way, she tells him all about it, the plotline, the people – and she speaks so highly of them like they're friends – and the places. He loves it all, and sometimes finds himself overcome with jealousy because he's not the only thing that makes her happy.

But when she curls into his side late in the night, the book abandoned on the dining room table, he remembers it's silly to be envious of someone's writing. Even though it's a never-changing constant, he's real and he's there and he can touch her. Words can be comforting, but they can't do the same things hands can. They can't brush hair out of faces or poke ticklish spots or hold you when you need protection. Books never really get the same reaction out of her as he does.

Secretly, he's glad.

.

.

.

They fight a total of one time. It's loud and extravagant and so unlike the quiet touches and soft murmurs they're used to. Doors slam and he yells and he doesn't remember how they got like this. He's worn out, tired, and he doesn't mean to say the things he does.

When she cries, it rips him apart, the gut wrenching sobs tearing through his stomach. He feels as if he's been punched repeatedly, the wind's knocked out of him and he's gasping just like she is. _He's_ done this to her. _He's_ made her feel so sad. _He's_ the reason for the hurt, for the ache.

His eyes sting – they hurt they hurt they hurt – and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, close to breaking skin. Everything is blurry and glassy when he bolts to the room she's taken refuge in, the door surprisingly unlocked.

He doesn't look at her for long, he doesn't think he can bear it, scooping her into his arms and fallingfalling_falling_ onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and tears. He's not sure who's worse, her or him; they're sliding down his face, too, salty when they reach his mouth.

Derrick chokes out apologies. He's sorry for everything, even the thing he wasn't there for, the things he has no control over. He's sorry she's not happy, he's sorry he made her cry, he's sorry they can't stay in the library forever. He's sorry sorry sorry.

He doesn't know when and he doesn't know how, but there comes a time when she stops blubbering and holds _him_, wiping at his eyes and catching his tears before they fall. _It's okay it's okay it's okay_, she tells him, but he doesn't think it is – it never will be because he promised, _he promised_, he would never do that to her and what good is he if he can't keep his promises?

"I don't want to be the reason you cry," he says.

She holds his face in her hands. "I don't want you to either," she responds and he can see the internal battle waging in her eyes. "But it's okay."

"How is it okay?" he mutters, wanting to pull away from her touch. He doesn't deserve it. Not now, maybe not ever. "I told you I wouldn't do it, I wouldn't hurt you like they do, and I did, and I never want you to feel that way ever. Not because of me, not because of anyone else."

"You could never hurt me, Derrick." Her words are so sincere it takes him a while to breathe again afterwards. "It was an accident and accidents happen. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." She smiles at him, brightening the world a little more, and leans forward to kiss him. "It's okay."

"No it's not," he argues when she pulls away, but he can already feel his heart start to beat normally again. "I just… want you to be happy and I want you to be happy because of me. I never want to go back to… to when you hated me because you did once and that would literally just break my –"

"I never hated you." Her voice is soft; he's mesmerized not only by the words but the way her lips move to form them. "I think I always loved you."

His Adam's apple feels like it's expanding, blocking all pathways to his lungs. He has to take a deep breath to get rid of the lightheaded feeling consuming his whole body and even when he does, he's still dizzy. A good dizzy. He's not articulate at all when he responds, too many thoughts bouncing around in his head, and can only say, "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And that fills him up with every good feeling in the world. He presses kisses all over her face, tasting the tears that once covered her cheeks. He feels her giggle, running her hand through his hair, and that's all he needs. It's all he ever needs because with that he knows. He knows it's okay, that it's all okay, even though it's really not. He knows they'll be okay. They'll always be okay.

He loves her. He loves her so much it hurts. It spreads through him like a wildfire, burning and blistering all it touches. It should cause damage to him, shouldn't it? But it's not. He's fine. Better than fine, actually. He feels like he can do anything, can face any problem that's thrown at him.

His father once told him a woman's love is what makes a man. He never understood what that could possibly mean – a man made a man, didn't he? – but now he gets it. He's indestructible now; nothing can break him.

Derrick has no idea how to convey any of that in words. He doesn't know how to tell her she's the world, she's the stars, she's everything in between. He could say _I love you_ back, he could, but that's not enough. Massie's more than that. Without her, he'd just exist, and he's glad he tried to fix her all those years ago. He's glad she can't be fixed. If she could be, she wouldn't be his, and they wouldn't be the _MassieandDerrick_ they are now, and he doesn't think he would like that all too much.

He can't tell her any of that. He can only express what he feels as best he can with soft touches and quiet promises that he's still worried he might eventually break. He loves her more than he can explain and he wants her to know this, he wants her to understand just how deep the feeling is, and he can only hope she's on the same wavelength as him.

(She is. She always is.)


End file.
